


i thought that i heard you laughing, i thought that i heard you sing

by higgsburied (transishimaru)



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: (none of it is graphic), Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:20:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transishimaru/pseuds/higgsburied
Summary: i think i thought i saw you try





	i thought that i heard you laughing, i thought that i heard you sing

**Author's Note:**

> this was always going to be a vent fic it was just going to be about the more ocd-like symptoms of autism until my trauma kept me up 'till four am  
> title from ["losing my religion" by rem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwtdhWltSIg)

He has always had, and always will have, his little rituals. Mondo watches as he fidgets with each box, grabbing them in hurried motion with too much force, stacking them atop each other to gauge their sameness. Lines fade in across his forehead as he works, thumb and forefinger pinching the edges to try and make them align exactly. 

Taka grunts in frustration at some imperfection only he can see, trying to adjust their position with careful precision.  

The top box skews too far to the left, and tears spring up with a whiny noise that escapes his throat. 

Mondo doesn’t even know what the boxes are _for_ , just knows that the perfection his friend seeks doesn’t exist in anything, least of all flimsy and cheap confectionery boxes. There is a part of him that wants to just tell Taka that whoever will be on the receiving end does not care if the contents or their confines are exact matches, and that the little inconsistencies are what show the gift is hand-made with care and thought. He thinks about it, but doesn’t say it, because he knows that no force in this world can stop Kiyotaka Ishimaru when he puts his mind to completing a task. 

He only intervenes when the tears form streaks and Taka’s hands tremble, movements too jerky to possibly get close to whatever end goal he has in mind. His arm is enough to pin Taka to his seat, back to the back of the chair, a sign that even his body recognizes continuing would not be a good idea. He smiles at Mondo, but it’s insincere; it’s an apology to Mondo, not to himself.  

Mondo is allowed to be rough at his edges and flawed. Kiyotaka will love him regardless. But he will never love himself when all he sees are chips.  

* * *

Taka lives in a world that runs somewhat parallel to Mondo’s. For Taka, the rules give structure and order to the chaos. A place for every thing, and everything in its place. For Mondo, rules are malleable to the environment, and whether or not he chooses to abide by them on any given day is not preset. Taka is the order Mondo seeks to better himself, to guide his actions; and he is the chaos Taka seeks to let go in, the safety net he needs to let himself relax. 

But something, even with Mondo, is holding him back. 

Mondo is aware that what most people see when they look at Taka is not what he sees. To them, Taka is inflexible, unwilling, a man who lives by his obsessions and dies by the compulsions to keep each in check. Their schoolmates think it is superiority. Mondo knows – it's what he thought too, once. He knows now that so much of what guides Taka is fear.  

Some days, Taka cannot even stand to be touched. Mondo thinks it is an immeasurable show of love, of devotion and friendship, that he knows these days, and so does Makoto. Mondo does not have quite the same unsalable faith in their class as Taka does, but when Kiyotaka closes his door on Friday and does not come out until the weekend is finished, it’s Makoto he trusts to keep things up in his stead. Whatever Makoto said to open him in their first year of classes, Mondo is overwhelmingly grateful.  

It has, in the past, cleared up within a day or two. But this time, when Monday rolls around, things are still out of place. It takes Mondo a few minutes to spot the differences in his two provided pictures: the Kiyotaka he knows, and the Kiyotaka he meets in the hallways when the school week starts again. 

Kiyotaka is not a man who lets things fall out of order. He does not present himself until things are as clean-lined as they are going to be. It probably isn’t obvious to the rest of the class, even to Makoto, but Mondo has learned to read the finer print: the shadow under his eyes, the uneven shave, the depression in unwashed locks of hair. When things start to lean, Kiyotaka forgets things; one of them has never been his wristwatch.  

Mondo notices the last when they stand in the hallway, so close their shoulders nearly touch. He moves in such a way it will be obvious what course he plans to take, and sets the timing of his internal clock by any fraction of any distance that Kiyotaka adds or subtracts between them. He notices the missing watch when his sweetheart’s arm is raised to point and detain, voice strained and cracking where normally it holds strong. He grabs on to Taka’s wrist, and doesn’t miss the startled flinch in surprise. 

Surprise, or something else.  

This isn’t the time to comment on it. Mondo’s fingers tug on the fabric of his jacket playfully, pulling the back of Taka’s hand to his mouth, lips forming an easy smile where they meet flesh. Taka smiles, eyes tipped down to the ground for half a second when he mutters something about PDA. But his fingers, it should be mentioned, never pull away from Mondo’s grasp. 

* * *

He hears it in the morning, their second day of break. Hears it, or feels it. Something that he has been made aware of like a distant rolling fog, waking up in a daze of clouds he cannot see past.  

Taka, when he stumbles up from the bed to find him, is in the bathroom. It is 3:19 in the morning, and there is vomit in the sink.  

It’s one of those times where he can’t be touched, fingers pulling with too much force at the hair on his head. Even the light from the hallway causes him to recoil, and Mondo can tell from the viscosity that Taka has not been eating in addition to not sleeping.  

“How long's it been since you eaten?” he asks.  

The fact that Taka cannot give him an immediate reply is cause enough for concern.  

He doesn’t protest when Mondo leaves only to return a few seconds later with a granola bar and a glass of water. It’ll take too long at this hour to make anything else and he doesn’t like the way Taka’s hands shake in simple motion. He doesn’t like much of anything about this, but there’s not a lot he can do but just be there. 

And like the sentiment of uneven boxes, Mondo doesn’t think levying such hollow words as  _You know you can talk to me, right?_  will do him much good. He's looking too thin when he’s shirtless, and Mondo feels like a shit boyfriend for not noticing the signs, and even shittier for wallowing in his incompetence. 

He's halfway down the granola bar when he talks, crumbs sticking to his lick-wet lips. “I can’t go back,” he says, and for a terrifying moment Mondo thinks he means ‘to school.’ But Taka isn’t looking down or away, more off to the side where he has been existing for the past couple days. “I can’t go home,” he specifies. “I can’t go home to deal with-  _that_.” 

Mondo nods, stomach burning in furious curiosity at what it might mean. “You can stay here,” he offers, but he knows it’s little consolation. His love can’t fill all voids, and neither can Naegi’s. He knows what it is to lose family, and that nothing is ever really the same.  

Taka is unsteady on his feet as he finishes all but one bite, hand on an uneasy stomach. He looks at Mondo with meaning, something Mondo has been able to glean even in before their time together had turned from words of anger to words of affirmation, words of love. He hates that it’s a look that knows what violence means. “F’r ‘s long as you like,” he says, meaning,  _Stay forever_. Taka nods, and his gaze goes to the floor, to Mondo’s feet, bare and sticking to the imitation tile beneath them. “Is it ok if I touch you?” he asks. 

Kiyotaka doesn’t look at him for an extended moment, and he assumes the answer is no. He doesn’t mind, standing here, standing guard in front of a door that may obscure unseen enemies or nothing at all.  

“It feels...all over me,” he says at last, his voice small despite the narrow space. “Sometimes all I can feel is hands. It only takes a moment to experience, but it feels like an eternity.” 

There’s bile working its way up Mondo’s throat, between the stench of the stomach acid in his sink and the implication of the words he’s hearing. This is the kind of instance that provokes his reckless danger, and yet it’s the same instance that calls for the most delicate response.  

He feels Taka’s weight tip onto him, feels his shaking breath against chest as he says “But yes, I need you to hold me,” and collapses in for all the pressure Taka needs to get through the storm rolling in. 


End file.
